Shattered
by N64Nerd
Summary: 'The man couldn't be John. John wasn't broken, he was always repaired. Sherlock fixed John, and John fixed Sherlock. If John couldn't be fixed, he wasn't John. And this man was very, very broken.' Takes place after the funeral.


_**I do not own Sherlock, nor any of the characters. Only this story.**_

* * *

John's apartment had been empty for the past few hours, waiting like a dog for his owner to return. The curtains were open, and the light that passed beyond the fabric walls lit up the room. Although no one was present, the dust in the room was still floating about, as if tens of hundreds of people were moving around, pushing the air in strange patterns. It was quarter to six.

The sound of a metal key scraping ever so gently across its brother, the lock, resonated through the open rooms. A click was heard, and it was if the walls were listening, silently waiting for the next action of the man behind the door.

A long creak sounded out, and the door slowly turned, letting the man enter the apartment. When it stopped, the man simply took the key and walked in. It was as if the door was waiting for something. A thank you? Perhaps it was ever so slightly annoyed, as if it knew the typical behaviours of the man and was sighing to itself. Of course, the man had to acknowledge its presence, and gave it a pat on the back, causing the door to creak back to its original position.

The man slowly made his way into the kitchen, his motions almost natural, although something held him back. The sounds of hinges and ceramics were the only one to be heard in the lonely room, but that didn't faze the man. It was comforting in a sense.

Soon the sound of the kettle joined in with the symphony of sounds, creating a loud, high-pitched whistle for the other noises to base themselves around. Each move that the man made was another beat, another part of the song that was making tea.

But every song must end, just like many other things, and so with a dying cry, the kettle stopped and the man picked it up, pouring the inner liquid into his small ceramic cup. He had entered so slowly, though his actions were erratic now.

The room watched the man walk into the living room and over to the chair, though he did not sit down. His eyes looked sad, yet his posture gave off the impression that he was instead stressed. With each breathe his emotions grew, and the cup in his hand was shaking more and more. The man tried to calm himself down by drinking some of the tea he had brewed, lifting the cup to his mouth. Boiling water filled his mouth, and as he swallowed he couldn't help but remember something. A word.

**_John._**

Even thinking about the name caused the man to panic, and the sudden rush of feeling caused the cup to escape the man's grasp. It became a bird without wings, trying to fly a way. The cup shattered.

**_Shattered._**

No one would have ever thought the two words could have been connected so easily, not even the man. No, not the man. The husk. A body with a missing soul, a home without an owner, a companion without someone to follow.

**_Sherlock._**

Like the cup, the man began to fall. His knees caught him, holding him up just enough so that he wouldn't hurt himself on the shattered pieces that littered the floor. It wouldn't have mattered anyway if he'd cut himself. To the man, he was already hurt. Had the ceramics cut into his neck, ending his life, it wouldn't have mattered, for he was already dead.

The noise in the room was a candle. It had been lit so quickly, but was now out within seconds. Silence reigned, and each breath the man took fought and died out, endless wars between the two opposites. But that was only in the physical world. Inside the man's head, screams and cries bounced around, words that couldn't be spoken were said, and he clutched at his head trying to end the constant voices.

The words in his head lied to the man, clawing at the edges of his mind, scratching any nerves they could. Most were reminders, said only to torture him with memories of what had happened, each shout louder than the last. Even so, a single word stood out from all the others. 'John'.

**_John._**

"No," the man whispered harshly. "I'm not him!" He wore the same jacket, the same pants, the same shoes. He had the same short blonde hair, with the same wrinkles in his skin and the same coloured eyes. He was identical in every way to John physically, but inside he was the opposite. Mentally, this 'John' was a stranger.

_'I can't be John anymore. John is happy, following Sherlock around. He's had his ups and downs, but he always gets back up. He fights, he doesn't give in. I'm not John. I'll never be John again. John isn't broken, he's repaired. Sherlock fixes John, and John fixes Sherlock. That isn't me. In the end, John is never beyond repair, Sherlock's always there to fix him again. But there's no one anymore, and I'm...'_

**_Shattered._**

**_Shattered like a tea cup._**


End file.
